


schemes over tea

by VillainousVivs



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Engagement, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: Nerdanel meets the family.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, background Mahtan Aulendur/Mahtan Aulendur's Wife
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2020





	schemes over tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eris_of_imladris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [eris_of_imladris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris) in the [LotR_SeSa_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LotR_SeSa_2020) collection. 



> Mahtan and his wife just snuck in somehow.

Finwe reads Feanaro’s letter and decides that he needs a glass of wine.

Feanaro’s letter is… well, Feanaro’s letter. Oftentimes it pertains to pleasantries, followed by some pages of whatever new knowledge his son has consumed and decided to regurgitate. At the end he would attach a sketch of his work, often sloppy for how slow his hand is to his mind. (He had once attempted to explain how to properly manufacture a kaleidoscope. The drawing was… nice. Incomprehensible, but nice.)

This letter is not such a letter. This letter is about Nerdanel. 

Feanaro doesn’t name her because Feanaro thinks he can be subtle with words while he’s smitten and enamoured, though Finwe is certain that there aren’t too many ‘fierce-haired, stone-hearted’ young women who can keep up with his son’s temper in Aman.

For his part, Finwe thinks it’s about damn time. He’s known for a while--call it a father’s instinct, though his son really isn’t difficult to read--but Feanaro had seemed… distracted, for the past few months. He’s been holding out hope.

(He admits nothing out loud, but he was worried that whatever had distracted his son might incur injury, whether by Feanaro’s own impatience or otherwise. He wishes Mahtan and his kin all the best, of course, but if this Nerdanel had broken his son’s heart, well… 

...he’ll think of something. A drearily large project, perhaps, or a nigh impossible commission. Never let it be known that kings cannot be petty.)

 _Not that thinking of anything is needed_ , Finwe thinks, sipping deep into his wine. He has heard little of this daughter of Mahtan, but what he has heard is good: that she is a masterful crafter of sculptures, and that her mood is as unwavering as the stone she works with. Oh, and that her hair is red as the embers of her father’s forge, which is rare enough among the Noldor to be distinguishing.

(Feanaro has not mentioned bringing her to the palace yet, though Finwe _really must insist_. Call him a paranoid fool if they like, but he would not have his heartsick fool of a son be married without meeting his bride home.)

He considers riding out himself to greet this illustrious family. No, no, Feanaro detests coddling, and he can scarcely escape the palace even with Nolofinwe’s help. He sighs.

Finwe downs his wine and pens a letter. 

***

It is not Feanaro that rides up the palace steps, but Mahtan. Finwe knows because Finwe happens to be taking an afternoon stroll and greets him casually at the gates, decorum be damned.

“I have word for the king,” the craftsman says, seated on his stout horse.

Finwe nods, perfectly aware that currently, he himself looks like a courtier at best, without crown or gold. “Of course,” he replies. “You are Mahtan?”

 _Not_ , he thinks, _that there are any other red-bearded elves in Aman_.

The craftsman dismounts and hands the reins to the stablemaster.

“Come,” says Finwe. “There is much to discuss.”

Mahtan, for his part, simply follows, and sits when he is gestured to. Finwe seats himself silently across the craftsman as the servants stream in, carrying refreshments for high tea.

It isn’t until they’re all gone that Finwe talks. “Speak, O Mahtan the craftsman. I am Finwe.”

If Mahtan is at all surprised that this plain, simple-looking fellow that met him at the door is in fact the king, he does not show it. “Our children are courting,” he says, candid and sure.

At least he wouldn’t have trouble communicating with his in-laws. “Yes. Feanaro sent me a letter.”

Mahtan sips his tea. “I assume you wrote him one back?”

“Of course,” says Finwe, sipping his.

“Forgive my encroachment, my king,” replies Mahtan, “but what exactly did you say in that letter?”

He, ah, might’ve not had the best of phrasing while tipsy on wine. “I inquired about their courtship. And perhaps how nice it would be to meet Nerdanel, that beautiful daughter of yours.” 

“Hm. It would explain the parchment he threw in the fire last month.”

Finwe set down his cup. “Ah.”

“Ah, indeed.”

“I assume this means they have no intention to visit Tirion any time soon, for business or leisure.”

“No,” replies Mahtan, gruff.

“... whatever shall we do with them?”

Mahtan grunts. “They are smitten, certainly. For nigh on a year, now.”

Finwe chokes on his drink. _Nigh on a year!_ “But they would not meet with me, or have I misinterpreted Feanaro’s distress?”

“They would not meet with me either,” confesses Mahtan, looking exceptionally peeved, “even though I have caught them quite a few times alone with one another.”

Finwe regards him with much sympathy. “I see. Do you propose, then, that we give them a nudge towards our general vicinity?”

The craftsman’s eyes seem to glimmer. “Indeed, my king. It would seem that they need it.”

***

Nerdanel can stand his pacing no more. “All right, spit it out: what is bothering you, ‘Naro?”

He pauses to look at her desperately. “I think your father’s up to something.”

She rolls her eyes, resuming her work. She loves him, certainly, but even she must admit that her lover is of the more dramatic cut of cloth. “He is my father. He is always up to something.”

Feanaro shakes his head. “He is headed for Tirion proper,” he insists. “He never goes unless it’s a delivery.”

“Or if he’s getting something for amal,” answers Nerdanel. “Don’t worry, ‘Naro. And if my words cannot cease your pacing, then you will be mollified, at least, when he returns this evening.”

Mahtan does return that evening, though a little later than expected. “Has your amal written?”

“She has,” Nerdanel declares, “but eat first. Feanaro is dying to see you back.”

Mahan sets his coat on its rack and follows her to the dining table, where Feanaro sits. “Oh? He is? You are?”

“Master Mahtan,” says Feanaro, looking up from his soup. “Welcome back.”

“Welcome back indeed! I have brought good news with me.”

“Oh?” says Nerdanel, curious.

“Oh?” says Feanaro, mortified.

“I have received a commission for you, dear daughter. In the palace.”

Nerdanel whoops with delight. “My word, so soon! I did not think I would be summoned for another decade at least, if at all, for such a work!”

“Peace,” Mahtan says, serving himself. “We’ll discuss the specifics after dinner.”

“Oh, fine. But I’m preparing my tools!” With that she storms out of the dining room, leaving one terrified Feanaro with Mahtan.

“I don’t suppose my father proposed this?” he asks, after removing his face from his hands.

Mahtan eats a spoonful of his soup. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, young man. Finish your soup.”

“... yes, sir.”

***

They arrive in Tirion next week, a cart of tools tumbling behind them by hardy donkeys.

“It’s my father’s ploy to meet you,” Feanaro says when he thinks Mahtan can’t hear. “Nerdanel, you have to believe me-”

She waves him away. “Bah, and if it is? Are we to be wed without our families’ witness? Come now, ‘Naro. I’ll meet your father. He’ll like me. Have faith.”

Feanaro shakes his head. “It isn’t that I don’t want you two to meet.” He sighs. “I love him, you know I do, he just… can be a little _much_ sometimes.”

Nerdanel stares at him incredulously; Feanaro seems to have missed the irony in his statement. “I can handle you, ‘Naro. I’ll be fine. Besides, I have to meet him eventually for our engagement.”

“He-just… he’s protective of me. Don’t let him intimidate you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your drunken spout on Tengwar didn’t scare me, ‘Naro. All will be well.”

Feanaro doesn’t seem to believe her, but he let the topic drop. “I suppose you’re right,” he tells her, and that was that.

***

Nerdanel is stolen by Finwe the moment Feanaro is led away by her father, which isn’t surprising, but she also sees her amal seated by the tea table, which is.

“My sweet,” cries Autarë, standing to embrace her. “It’s been too long. I apologize for my absence--you know how it is in the mines.”

“Amal,” Nerdanel says, holding her dearly missed mother tightly. “Why are you here?”

“Why, our king invited me,” she says, gesturing to Finwe. “We’ve spoken at length concerning you and that brilliant Feanaro of yours, and he mentioned how you would arrive to help with the festivities.”

“Indeed, I am here to do so.” She peers over to Finwe, who politely waits for their exchange to finish. “My king.”

He smiles, and she sees at once where Feanaro gets his lopsided smirk. “Please, do not regard me so formally. And sit, relax. We have much to discuss.”

***

Feanaro finds them eventually because Feanaro isn’t stupid, but Feanaro _is_ a little dumbfounded at the sight of his sweetheart’s mother gossiping with his father, which is exactly what he sees.

Nerdanel notices him lurking before he can slink away. “‘Naro!”

Then all three pairs of eyes are on him, and oh, he is not ready for this.

“Father,” he chokes out. “Lady Autarë. Nerdanel.”

She snickers; rare is Feanaro ever at a loss for words. This would be one such occasion, she thinks. “Come on, don’t be a stranger. This is your home, Valar’s sake.”

He approaches them, but his steps are stiff, awkward. When he arrives at the table he isn’t sure who to sit beside and opts to stand instead.

And then father and son open their mouths to speak at the same time!

“Fath-”

“Fean-”

Oh, what fun.

“I want to propose to Nerdanel,” Feanaro blurts out, before anything else can be said. “For our engagement.”

The room falls silent.

Feanaro pulls out two silver sings from his belt, fine and unadorned.

Nerdanel looks over to the parents. Finwe is rubbing his temples whereas Autarë looks more and more amused. 

She walks over to Feanaro and kisses him. “Well, I don’t see why not. Would our parents like to officiate?”

**Author's Note:**

> Autarë: Auta (To Invent) + rë (Woman who does)
> 
> non canonical name taken from fantasynamegenerators.com


End file.
